


If I kiss your scars, will you kiss mine too?

by knockmouth



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Frottage, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Past Joker (DCU)/Jason Todd, honor bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockmouth/pseuds/knockmouth
Summary: He always starts hesitantly, even now. Slade’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this, how many horror show motel rooms they’ve left in their wake. Neither of them care for the décor; it’s as unremarkable as any other. All Slade remembers of their encounters is the slow slide of a blade and the heat of his blood rising to kiss it.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Joker (DCU)/Jason Todd
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	If I kiss your scars, will you kiss mine too?

Jason keeps the helmet on when they do this. Slade suspects it’s because he likes the extra degree of separation, the isolation, alone up there with just his own reckless thoughts and a knife in his hand. 

He’s bare now, down to the waist. Slade leans back into the pillows and studies the pattern of burns and scars intertwined across the kid’s flesh, a mottled painting in the orange light. 

He’s still wearing the pants, though the holsters are gone, and the fly hangs open. The material is coarse against Slade’s bared thighs, the thin cotton of his briefs barely enough to stifle the harsh slide when Jason shifts position on his hips. 

Slade grunts his displeasure, but waits patiently for the boy to settle, knife lolling in his grip as he surveys the bared chest before him. Lights flickering across the blue display of his helmet, obscuring whatever emotion the boy is feeling. 

He can hear the boy’s pulse thundering though, feel the tremble of his thighs where they grip at Slade’s hipbones. When his bloodlust gets high like this, he sends a message to Slade. The mercenary is more than happy to play canvas to the kid’s sadism. 

“Well?” Slade prompts, and slides his unblemished palms up the kid’s clothed thighs. The boy tenses beneath the touch, even with the layer between them, and Slade slows his movements. 

The kid is touchy. Not a fan of restraints of any kind. 

Slade can swing either way on the bondage front, but he likes it most like this. Just him sprawled back on the covers of a stained motel mattress, with an uninterrupted view of the man above him. The Arkham Knight is a figure of perseverance, of intelligence and discipline. Slade’s the only one who gets to see him this unguarded. 

His chest heaves, the modulators warping his tone into a low growl. 

“Hands off,” is his first order. 

Slade smirks, but does as he’s bid, hooking them both up behind his head. Keeps his level gaze on the sway of the boy’s hand, the knife poised like a needle over a record. Trying to find the right groove. Waiting for the right moment to drop. 

He always starts hesitantly, even now. Slade’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this, how many horror show motel rooms they’ve left in their wake. Neither of them care for the décor; it’s as unremarkable as any other. All Slade remembers of their encounters is the slow slide of a blade and the heat of his blood rising to kiss it. 

Jason shifts again, throat bobbing as he surveys Slade’s bare torso. “Safeword?” he prompts. 

“Kane,” Slade answers. He’s never used it. Jason has. 

Jason nods, more a reassurance for himself than anything else, Slade suspects. Then the knife lowers, angled to scrape the flat of the blade over Slade’s collarbone. 

It arcs down over his pectoral, sharp enough to trim the hairs on Slade’s sternum as he breathes steady and watches. The knife skirts each valley of his ribs, every ridge of his abdomen to hook lightly into his belly button. 

Slade exhales, feeling the barest prick of pain when the kid shifts the blade to account for his inhale. Maybe tonight will be the night the kid will gut him, carve him open from balls to brains. Slade doubts it. 

The knife rises, Jason’s hand lifting to plant next to Slade’s ear, to give him a closer view when he considers the veins on Slade’s wrists. Blue electronics reflecting over blue blood. 

Slade keeps his gaze on the kid, on the cock of his head when he returns to Slade’s collarbones and then shifts up to the underside of his throat. 

The first cut lands, a nick in Slade’s jaw that flares bright and brief. He feels the warm slide of a droplet down to the hollow of his throat. The knife shifts a half-inch to the left, and cuts again. 

He’s cut himself worse shaving, but Slade doesn’t say as much. The kid spooks easily, he’s learnt, especially in the early stages. He needs to warm up, needs to convince himself that whatever damage he inflicts isn’t permanent, remind himself that he can’t hurt Slade in any way that matters. 

Slade holds his breath when Jason presses the knife down the groove of his tendon, opening up the flesh on his throat, from jaw to base. Then pushes inward, muscle and sinew parting around the metal as Slade grunts. The pain there lasts longer, the blood flows more freely. But it dries with all the rest, and by then Jason is moving down to his chest. 

His hand splays over Slade’s ribs, visor crooked down to survey his canvas as Jason cuts an indecipherable pattern into the meat of Slade’s chest. The flesh parts beneath the glide of his palm, sewing itself back together over the shallow scars as he works. There’s no particular rhyme to it, just a steady burn that labors Slade’s breathing the barest amount. 

“Does it hurt?” Jason asks, unbridled curiosity filtering through the modulator. 

This is a script, and Slade knows his parts by heart. 

“Please,” he says clearly, and grunts when the knife digs deep, just below his nipple. Twists a little, just to drive the point in as Slade weathers the pain. 

When Jason shifts back up into his sit, half-hard cock rolling down against Slade’s groin, he says, “I asked you a question.” 

The wound is already healing, all trace of the man’s influence washing away but for the streak of blood rolling over Slade’s ribs. 

Slade doesn’t speak, and Jason answers his silence with a deep cut up the underside of his other pectoral. He bites back his hiss, doesn’t want to throw the man off when he’s clearly working himself into a rhythm, when they’re just getting started. 

Jason leans forward and wraps a shaking hand over the front of Slade’s windpipe, squeezes just briefly as he settles his weight on the fragile point. Slade tilts his jaw open, and closes his eyes when Jason carves deep into his cheek. 

“Answer the question,” Jason spits, and Slade opens his good eye to reply, “ _Please._ ” 

The cut across his lips burns, the shallow flesh erupting with hot blood that spills onto his waiting tongue. Slade swallows it down, holds Jason’s gaze religiously as he scrapes the blade down his exposed, pulsing jugular. 

“Does,” Jason repeat, “it hurt?” 

“Yes,” Slade answers, and tastes copper. 

Jason seems pleased with his answer, rolling his weight down into his hips as he turns his head to track over Slade’s bare body. The knife shudders over his heart, skirts his bicep and his stomach and returns back to his neck. 

“Batman’s not coming,” Jason reminds him, and Slade holds that unreadable stare. 

He licks his lips and says his line. “He is.” 

He flinches with the cut of the knife over his forehead. It goes wider than it should, nicking the corner of Slade’s temple. Blood comes quickly, spilling down his cheek and into the white hair above his ear. Slade breathes deep and holds position. 

Jason pauses then, seems to see him, see Slade. The knife lowers an inch, before he instructs, “Hands.” 

Slade unwinds his arms from behind his head, bucking his hips—and the man atop them—up with a grunt until he can cross his wrists in the small of his back. The new position pushes his back into a small arch, presents his bare torso more for the man with the knife. 

Jason nods and settles back into his role. Clears his throat before barking out around thin laughter, “He’s not coming. He doesn’t want a broken little birdie like you.” 

Slade groans when the knife cuts between his ribs, the skin ripping wide as it gouges deep. “Please stop.” 

Jason laughs, the sound hollow, practiced. A matching wound joins the other, an inch lower. 

“Please,” Slade repeats, louder. “Stop.” 

Two gloved fingers lift to pinch Slade’s nipple, hard. Pain bursts, shoving a grunt from his throat as he arches into the sensation. It’s joined by his other nipple when Jason slices through it. 

“ _Please,_ ” Slade says, and Jason taps the knife against his abdomen. Slade breathes deep and collects himself, takes stock of his injuries. Nothing substantial yet, though his temple is still bleeding sluggishly. It will pass soon. 

“You ask so nicely,” Jason murmurs, pleased. “Beg so pretty for me, little birdie.” 

He shifts, weight rolling off Slade’s hips as he pushes up onto his knees. 

The kid flips Slade onto his front, grinding down against his ass as he scrapes the curve of Slade’s shoulder blade where it juts from his back. He keeps his hands in the small of his back, lets the kid lean down over him, rutting shallowly. The coarse material of his pants chaffs the back of Slade’s thighs. 

His lips brush Slade’s ear, breath warm and cloying. 

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers, and pauses to groan, the sound a warped static through the modulator. “Say it, little Robin. Say it for me.” 

The knife plunges into Slade’s shoulder blade, drawing a howl from his chest. It carves deep, catching on his scapula with a nasty click when he twitches. Nerves fried, every tendon vibrating with pain as he surrenders to the wash of agony that blossoms from the point. Revels in the bite of the blade, reignited when his flesh tries to sew itself back together around the intrusion. 

“ _Say it!_ ” Jason bellows, incensed, and wraps a hand in Slade’s hair to shove his head into the sheets. “Batman—” 

His hands twitch in the small of his back, but it’s the only sign of weakness Slade allows himself to show. 

“Batman’s not coming,” Slade snaps, wheezing out a low groan when the knife is tugged free of the muscle. 

There’s a heat to Jason’s words, indiscernible between rage and arousal. His knuckles bruise Slade’s thigh when he slides a palm into his open pants to palm his clothed cock. “Tell me why.” 

“Because,” Slade huffs, and lets himself slump into the covers. The knife trembles up his spine, drawing lines of fire to compliment the inferno of his shoulder. “You’re a broken little bird. A bad Robin.” 

Jason groans, the sound hitching into a thin whine. Slade can feel the beat of his knuckles with every frenzied stroke as he jacks himself. Too aggressively to be anything but painful, Slade suspects. He doesn’t comment on it. 

“Forgotten little bird,” Slade continues, and moans gratefully when Jason rewards the words with a cut across the meat of his shoulder. Another on the back of his arm. “Locked up down here with no one to search for you.” 

The panting above him is nearing hyperventilation. Slade grinds his own hard length against the sheets beneath him, brow pinching at the discomfort, cock crushed beneath their combined weight. 

A cut to the side of his upturned wrist, another deep in the flesh of his palm. 

“No one to love you but me,” Slade says, and Jason keens, guttural and needy. It’s the sort of sound that rips from the man’s throat, bruises his lungs on its way out. 

The blade plunges into his kidney, and Slade’s entire world is a wash of agony and livewire nerve endings for a few minutes. 

When he finally swims back to cognizance, Jason is gulping down breaths, desperate as he crests his orgasm. Slade twists, grinds himself back against the knife, just to feel the flare of pain as his organs protest the damage. 

His orgasm rolls over him subtly, hips stuttering against the mattress as his entire body burns and blood stains the mattress. 

Jason comes shortly after, splattering onto Slade’s bare back. Spend dribbling into the gash opening up his side, and Slade breathes through the sensation. The balm of hot liquid joining the rest of his aches as he slumps onto the sheets. 

The man atop his thighs buckles too, white-knuckled grip breaking from the knife’s handle to shove at the visor, pry it off his face to throw aside. He plasters himself along Slade’s form, limbs and muscles collapsing in the wake of his afterglow. His sweat-streaked hair tickles the back of the mercenary’s neck, their breaths rising and falling in disjointed tandem. 

Slade’s the first to recover, reach back to slide the knife free, toss the blade onto the carpet as he shifts out from beneath the kid. Jason doesn’t protest the movement, rolling onto the covers, eyes still closed but breathing ragged as comes down from the high. 

Slade settles back on an elbow and lets his gaze carve familiar scars from the kid’s mottled flesh. Eyes hesitating on the brand seared into his flushed cheek. 

His last thought, as he pushes onto his feet to pad into the ensuite bathroom, is that they should really revisit that particular scar for their next session.


End file.
